


Yellow Card

by narquoise



Category: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narquoise/pseuds/narquoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lacuna Inc. resurfaces. Howard's back to work. Stan moonlights. Mary comes to terms with the revelation. Molly becomes a client. John and Mycroft begrudgingly collaborate to conceal the truth... for as long as they can, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Card

**Author's Note:**

> Another writing exercise, and this time one I've been putting off for more than half a year! Huzzah!  
> Again, constructive criticism is very much welcome. :)

There was this one trait Howard Mierzwiak prided himself on: he knew how to bounce back. It was an idea he had formed as a child to ward off the group of boys who always gathered by the corner of the block he lived on in the North Shore late in the afternoon with their wagons and makeshift guns. He was the pudgy, Jewish, second-generation Polish-American who prided himself by not showing fear (or at least the minimum allowed by a gang of boys looking for a good time) at every rite of passage they would put him through. He was Pinocchio kowtowing the Blue Fairy hoping he could jerk the strings off his wooden body until he finally got tired of it; at the end of the day, he would come back home to his family and the only consolation he got from his 'Blue Fairy' was that she would always give him extra żurek. Eventually, and as the proper order of things dictated, he became a 'real boy', and then a wooden man.

Today, he is sixty-eight. He liked to fancy that he lived a good, productive sort of life, and assured himself accordingly as he stared down at the solitary, partially eaten cake on the plate. His son and daughter had called up to greet him, which was fine. Hollis hadn't called him since the divorce. Lacuna Inc. was perched precariously on a tightrope—at least, he perceived it was in fear that one of the clients would sue—but for now, he was mostly safe as soon as most of his old clients had come back to have whatever was left of those memories re-erased; a nearly Herculean task considering they had disposed of the objects that were needed to trigger the electrical impulses needed to map. It became increasingly difficult to consider the idea of laying off some of his best people, but most of his best technicians, including Stan Fink, agreed to stay anyway, even with the reduced pay.

He put on The Road to Perdition. He wasn't sure why he had done so. He merely picked up some random DVD and put it in to let the sounds of voices float about in the air as if he had company, even if those voices were sometimes mixed with the sound of gunfire and violence. He could do with a little more excitement in his life: Tommy guns and mobsters and the Great Depression.

Well, the latter he could do without, but the former two seemed attractive fare.

The last thing Howard expected today was another phone call. No, he thought, not another birthday greeting. Not another [falsely] cheery greeting.

He was not sure why anyone from any government would personally phone him. Unless, of course, they'd found out about Lacuna which he had no doubt they might have picked up on after Mary had released confidential client information. For a moment, he considered the promising offer offered to him over the phone of getting his vocation back on track. What he thought lasted for a few hours took no more than half an hour's mulling over. He simply couldn't refuse the opportunity to save the company he built from the ground up. The next week, he received a padded envelope by his doorstep which he had sworn wasn't there fifteen minutes earlier. Inside were papers— a plane ticket, details for accommodation, and an initial payment.

This was his great bounce back. He just knew it.

 

* * *

 

John slumped into his seat looking as shell-shocked as he had during the first few days of desert campaign. This time, there were no sounds of conflict or of men gallivanting about the barracks, nor was there the all too familiar timbre of his best friend's voice. There was only this yellow card addressed to him in all its corporate, cookie-cutter charm, and something else entirely that added an even greater sense of confusion.

 

 

> _Dear Mr. Watson,_
> 
>  
> 
> _**Molly Hooper** has had **Sherlock Holmes** erased from her memory. Please never mention their relationship to her again._
> 
>  
> 
> _Thank you._
> 
>  
> 
> _LACUNA INC._   
>  _210 E Grand St. New York, NY 10019_

 

John lifted the card up and flapped it a few times for emphasis.

"'... erased from her memory.' You do realise this is absolutely daft, right?"  
"It is not something any major scientific organisation can and should know about. Do you know how much of a massive stir it could cause?"

Usually, this question would have been intimidating considering his tone of voice but the usually imposing presence of the elder Holmes looked more familiar and approachable sat comfortably across John, perhaps because of the mental link he'd established with Sherlock Holmes and that chair. John couldn't fathom how he allowed himself to feel Mycroft was welcome. He most certainly felt several things: mild self-hatred for relenting to the man, and shame for not having offered tea. John offered Mycroft an uncomfortable expression.

There was a great curiosity that built up inside him, but he would put his questions aside until further notice.

"They induce lacunar amnesia. Very precise procedure, although their mapping technique may do with a little more improvement. More funding and development. We certainly have enough to shoulder both."  
"Did you get one?" sighed John after taking a long moment to dispel the grey cloud of doubt over the impossibility of those methods.  
"One what?"  
"This... card."  
"Ah, yes. I threw it in a fire."

Another great, solemn silence fell over the two men.

"There is a great chance that I will be the first person he approaches if he discovers this," Mycroft admitted, clearing his throat uncomfortably.  
"Or the only person he approaches."  
"Yes, that's very likely."  
"And he  _will_ hate you for this."  
"It's not a new feeling. I take it you have a sibling of your own?"

 _Calm yourself_ , John reminded himself mentally. Mycroft Holmes was very,  _very_ fond of pushing people's buttons. He could tell, however, that he immediately regretted it. He was only too glad to spare his bare knuckles the hurt. Despite their having made up, he still did not appreciate her being brought up in conversation.

"You can't possibly hate your sister forever," he dismissed in typical aloof fashion. "At any rate, he will see that this was done with his best interests in mind."  
"As it usually is—"  
"—and as he usually can't perceive."

Mycroft's attention shifted to the undeniable sound of Mrs Hudson with a tea tray lightly  _tump-tump-tumping_  up the stairs. "I've heard you've come to visit, so I thought I might as well. There are some nice sarnies, biscuits—"  
"Mrs Hudson, if I may cut in." Immediately, she kept quiet and directed her attention to Sherlock's brother, "Would you happen to have any sherry?"  
"I am  _not_ a bartend."  
"No more than a finger for me tonight. I do have work to be getting on with."

As Mrs Hudson sighed softly and walked over to the kitchen, John called after her to ask for the same.


End file.
